(Not so...) Lazy Lamb...

To make amends for posting an old draft (*vomit!*) of an entry a little while ago I am not only writing something entirely new but also posting it early. My recent hard work in the field of University essays has allowed me a brief window of relaxation which I am using to write this. My subject: exercise.

I'm not well known as an athlete. Despite repeated suggestions from friends to join the school rugby team and secretly wishing in my heart of hearts that I possessed the bodily coordination necessary to wield a tennis racket or cricket bat I never really subscribed to the concept of sport. P.E. was, for me, just a few hours in the week during which I could wantonly display my gross ineptitude. Awkward shuffling on the basketball court, meek attempts to convince the teacher I was actually trying, these were my specialties. Admittedly I was actually quite good at table-tennis. The Forrest Gump inside me forced its way to the surface on a number of occasions. But table-tennis is not (and probably never has been AND probably never will be) really seen as a sport. It's an activity. It's like golf. Chess. Pottery.

When I was younger I was quite small. I should emphasize that I mean when I was much younger. Before being ravaged by the monstrous hormonal rapist that is puberty I was a small, scrawny and generally pitiful child. Once nature started to mould me unceremoniously in her gnarled hands (probably on crack at the time judging by how I turned out) I started to grow. I was, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, exactly the same...but stretched obscenely. At this time I could eat what I wanted, do what I wanted and never an ounce would loiter 'pon the biological street-corner of my skeletal form. This was fine by me, naturally.

Now, five or six years down the line I have essentially stopped growing, three or four inches taller than the average man I believe. Statistics may have changed since my height was last measured by a doctor. I wish I could break the six feet barrier, but I'm stuck in the limbo of 5' 11". Nothing wrong with that. My fellow members of the "frustratingly close to six feet but not quite" club include Dylan Moran, Alan Davies, zombie-faced Boris Karloff, Gene Clark, David Hyde Pierce, Eric Idle and Ian McKellen. Not a bad bunch of people to be the same height as. Although Boris Karloff has probably decayed to a much more modest size by now...

So I have no real qualms about my height. Just as well given that it is not a parameter which I can alter. It is simply that as I have stopped growing it is inevitable that my unsavoury lifestyle will catch up on me and alter my other dimensions. How do I go about resolving this impending disaster? I am unable to exercise in the context of a team due to my phenomenal lack of skill. The sight of me running would be like the gentle caress of red-hot tongs to the unwitting eyes of observers. I don't want anyone to see the appalling vision of my disproportionate limbs flapping about all over the place as I gambol my way through the streets and parks of Edinburgh. There is already enough suffering in this world of ours without such vile misfortune being heaped upon innocent Edinburgers.

What to do? What in God's name should one such as myself do to ward off the looming figure of future-Jamie leering at me from the bathroom mirror, all bulging stomach and wide buttocks, all quivering bingo-wings and dancing jowels.

Well, dudes and ladies, the exercise I have taken up is...

...walking!!!

I know what you're thinking. "Walking doesn't deserve three exclamation marks!" "Such gratuitous abuse of the conventions of punctuation!" "I have half a mind to gouge exclamation marks into your chest while you sleep!"

Those of you with a firmer grip on reality will probably be wondering why anyone would go walking. Alone. Especially someone who lives in inner-city Edinburgh. Well prepare for your doubts to be blown away in the cleansing wind of my Blog entry!!! (I have essentially spent the last seven or eight paragraphs building up to this. Don't ever say that when I make things up to you, I don't make them up to you GOOD AND PROPER.)

A brisk walk is, as any decent doctor will tell you, one of the most beneficial forms of personal exercise possible. For me though, it transcends the realms of mere physical exertion and assumes a seat somewhere in the billowing clouds of mental and spiritual well-being.

Walking is surprisingly versatile. You can set your own level, from power-walking (not my personal favourite as even the most beautiful, graceful person looks an arse...Emily Blunt couldn't even pull it off...) all the way through the spectrum to a gentle stroll. Walking is generally, I think, aerobic. It involves mild physical exertion over an extended period of time, unlike weight lifting or the like (anaerobic) which are generally done in short bursts (and short shorts). Walking is brilliant for toning the muscles. You can feel it. An hour's walk will leave your stomach notably firmer. This will fade after a while but regular walks will increase the lasting time of your beautiful, trim stomach until it attains permanence. Then you can "hit the clubs" and "go on the pull", satisfied with the knowledge that your elegant abdomen and pert waist will more than account for your bland, featureless excuse for a face.

So it's not too much for my lump of a body to handle and I don't look like any more of a tool than usual. It requires no special equipment and you are not even required to change your clothes. But walking in a city? Walking alone? Walking without the vaguest hint of a destination?

"We all knew you were a bit of a sad bastard Jamie, but surely this is the cherry on the cake baked specially to commemorate your receiving the award for 'Saddest Bastard of the 21st Century', surely."

Well, walking is actually thoroughly enjoyable... but not without its perils.

Edinburgh boasts, like many other major cities in the U.K., magnificent open spaces within and above the hustle and bustle of city life. A particular favourite spot of mine is the top of Carlton Hill. Here one is presented with a stunning panorama of Edinburgh with views of sea, mountain, pasture and a living collage of urban prosperity and decay powered by the broiling individual passions and woes of its oblivious inhabitants. Open green spaces curve down into the eclectic architectural mix that heaves and stretches like the back of some magnificent whale. One can also admire the unfinished replica of the Parthenon, planned as a timeless symbol of Edinburgh's academic and philosophical eminence within the British Empire. The metaphor I used to describe the mental and spiritual effect of walking is brought vividly to life in all its realism at this, the highest "urban" point of the nation's capital. One bursts through the haze of city life into a still world of reflection. The Greek Revival buildings visible all around are not only monuments to the past greatness of a city, of an age of writers, artists and philosophers never to be repeated; they are a lasting testament to the reviving qualities of the place itself. They stand as solemn guardians of the simple fact that it is always possible to instigate a revival: national, international or personal. Let these structures be the icons of your own inner Renaissance.

Of course, you may be thinking that all this nonsense has little to do with walking. You may be seething with irritation at my insistence on insisting that these wonderful structures are imbued with such astounding properties solely by your having walked to see them. That is your problem. I guarantee that driving up to the car park and getting out to stretch your legs will leave you unsatisfied. You will doubtlessly feel that, like a prostitute, you have sold yourself out to the bloated executives of the Ford corporation or BMW and that, in doing so, you have robbed yourself of the pleasure of a simple, instinctual human experience.

The way I see it is that walking gives you the opportunity to, without even noticing, alter your perceptons not only of your own life but of those individuals around you. Suddenly you will wonder what story lies behind the solitary elderly gentleman gazing out silently and soberly towards Portobello. Your interest will be awakened to the presence of the young couple strolling across the plateau, their joined hands swinging contentedly between them.

Of course if you find yourself unable to set your bearings for an area of tranquil beauty then the High Street is just as good. Although there is always the risk of being stuck behind some meandering woman with a backside the breadth of East Anglia. This woman will insist on countering any effort made by you to nip round her ample form by subtly shifting in the direction of whatever city-bypass you are using to do so. But I have a solution!

Today I found myself behind a... "working class rogue" we shall call him. This gentleman barreled his way through crowds like some track-suited steam locomotive. I simply made sure to remain as directly in his wake as possible and was spared the awkwardness of squeezing my delicate form through masses of disgruntled pedestrians.

I think I have addressed all the problems I raised about walking and in a more thoughtful and considered way than is the norm for this Blog. Oh! No, I haven't. But it's simple. If you think walking on your own is boring...bring a friend. Or do as I do and just make sure to charge your iPod before embarking on any sort of bipedal adventure.

Wagner or Kelly Jones make for more interesting company anyway.

Jamie.

Cultural Presumptions and their Embarrassing Implications...

Hello. I'm afraid that, what with this being essay and presentation season, I'm not really able to provide a new Blog entry. Instead, for your reading pleasure, I present you with one I drafted a few weeks ago during my nocturnal period. I hope you enjoy it and I assure you I shall have something properly new next month. Here you go...

You must forgive me. As these words flow from the immense, hollow cavern of my mind, through the tattered length of my nerves, out of my long and clumsy fingers and onto the screen before you (or below you or above you or within you) I have not slept. Anyone with a life substanceless enough to regularly check this Blog or my exploits on Twitter (which are still in their infancy) will know that my sleeping patterns are not quite right of late. Right now it's 7:06am on Friday 6th February. I've only been awake since 7:15pm on Thursday 5th February. Unable to pry open the firm grip of consciousness from my brain I have yielded to the demonic ferocity of its will. Two steaming mugs of finest Nescafe, three pieces of wholemeal toast, a cheese sandwich and a pint of milk later I am writing this. Only five hours until my first lecture and I reckon I can churn out a half-decent Blog entry in that time. So, to business...

We Britons often give Americans a hard time. Partly because of their actions in various wars. Partly because of what is widely considered their deficit of national common sense and intelligence, the inherent corruption in their political infrastructure and their wild, animalistic desire to censor everything in the mass media with the feces of their own moral objections. The topic of this morning's ponderings is loosely connected with that last one. Allow me to explain.

Despite its grandiose and, if I'm not horribly mistaken, self-imposed title of "The Land of the Free" the United States have long been the subject of much criticism regarding civil liberties. Many states have the most absurd laws likely to ever reach your ears. Because I'm so fond of you, gentle reader (and frightened of losing even a tiny fraction of my tiny readership,) and because such nonsense passing your delicate and judicious eardrums would cause irreparable hemorrhaging, I shall provide a few examples to be absorbed with the eyes. Please do not utter these mockeries of laws out loud. I shall not be responsible for the physical, emotional and financial damage which such recklessness would surely incur.

1. United States Federal Law states that one can be fined up to $1,000,000 for the crime of genocide.

2. In California it is illegal to wash more than one baby at a time in the same bath tub.

3. In Zion (Illinois) it is illegal to give any domesticated animal a lit cigar.

4. In Topeka (Kansas) it is illegal to serve wine in teacups.

5. In Ottumwa (Iowa) it is illegal for a man to wink at any woman with whom he is "unacquainted" within the city limits.

6. In Baltimore it is illegal (and God damn the unscrupulous cad who breaks this one) to take a lion to the cinema.

Some of these may not be true...If you want any further information you need only Google "funny state laws". The site where I found these gems offers citations for many of its offerings. I was quite impressed.

But, strangely, what I am trying to get at here is that America may be a silly place, but Britons hardly have a right to mock it in many areas. We might like to view ourselves as a liberal country with free speech and freedom of press and all that...but are we?

I have a black friend. I should probably keep his identity secret. For the purpose of completeness we shall call him Yannick (because that is his name). He has been quite shocked by the prejudice shown by the people of Edinburgh. I, in turn, have been shocked by the very same thing. He's a lovely man, with the athletic ability of an anthropomorphic panther or, my favourite, a speeding black (anthropomorphic) bullet. Deadly. Swift. Black. He's not at all against innocent jokes like that but he was rather miffed when, only yesterday, he was asked to leave his rucksack with the security guard at the door of a supermarket while the other customers roamed around, free to wear theirs with fierce pride(or probably not...). In an art gallery this would have been nothing out of the ordinary. Even in Lidl I seem to remember customers being asked to carry their rucksacks...but that is almost certainly my sleep-deprived brain exacting its subtle vengeance for my gross neglect.

On the bus on the way there he was treated in a most disrespectful manner by the driver. A trivial misunderstanding regarding the fee for the return ticket ended in the man rolling down the dividing perspex and addressing poor Yannick quite rudely and with not a little curtness in his gruff Lothian accent.

This is not the end of it. He assures me that every time he so much as enters a shop the staff and/or security prowl after him like ravenous hounds. In his own words "Nobody trusts me in this country!"

I know that, this far north, it is fairly uncommon to see a black person on the street, in the supermarket or anywhere. In Crieff this was to be expected and in Edinburgh I am not surprised too much in all honesty, but such blatant distrust bordering on verbal hostility seems entirely uncalled for.

I'm sure this is the case in many areas of the States as well, but we are the ones looking down our noses across the expanse of the Atlantic, an expanse which we claim separates racist animals filled to bursting with hydrogenated fat from cultured and globally aware, cosmopolitan Europeans.

Awful stuff. Awful.

Going back to the subject of silly laws ,an area which, more often than others, draws disdain from Brits, you might like to know, as I begin to conclude, that mince pies are a famous, yet illegal, Christmas treat in this country (there were a lot of commas in that sentence). Oliver Cromwell, a man considered by some to be quite the good egg, banned anything to do with gluttony from what he wanted to be an austere religious celebration. Christmas as we know it was banned for several years because jolly festivities and revelry were unsuited to commemorate the birth of Christ. Such shows of religious disrespect were for degenerates and bottom-bashers. No self-respecting Briton would mar the good name of wholesome Christian observance. So said one of our country's most influential and revolutionary figures. Never mind that the Greeks, from whom almost every cultural and artistic achievemnt of the past two thousand years has been filtered, were leaders in the field of debauchery ("A woman for necessity, a boy for pleasure and a goat for ecstacy").

So, there we are. You can probably see that I'm quite fond of America despite having been there only once...to Florida. Britain as it is stands on cultural foundations of an altogether colonial nature. Our cinema, our music, our literature, our advertising , all draw intense influence from the States. Sure we have Shakespeare, Ian Flemming and Bond, every decent Hollywood villain of the last thirty years, but a country can't maintain its merit solely on these things. These things won't keep Britain's head above the modern tide. Nor can these things excuse the intolerance and flat-out pigheadedness which prevails amongst more of us than I like to think.

America may be a daft and illogical place and is certainly far too huge and all-encompassing a nation for me to make any accurate generalisations (for the positive or negative), but nonetheless it seems a little bit daft and illogical to assume a, frankly, undeserved position of superiority and snobbery. Certainly not when you live in a country where a guest is made to feel unwelcome. Because that's hardly the Britain we want to promote is it?

Jamie.

P.S. It's true that you can take a cow to the pub...but it's lemonade shandies all round I'm afraid. Getting drunk with your milk-producing friend will result in you spending an indefinite period of time at her Majesty's pleasure.

Nostalgia: A Discourse...

Someone once said that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. It's a phrase that is repeated over and over by historians who, for some reason, feel the need to justify their subject and the study thereof. Personally I don't think you need a practical reason to learn anything. I'm learning Swedish for God's sake. Sweden's days as a nation of any real influence were found not to have survived the end of the 1600s and the limp corpse of their empire was to be found by Peter I, dripping in the gory afterbirth of the eighteenth century. The ascension of Russia to the top of the northern European food-chain was one which left little chance for a Swedish comeback...unless one counts an admirable success rate in the EuroVision Song Contest (and I don't...ABBA are all very well and good, but come on...). I'm learning it because I thought it would be interesting. I may or may not go into deeper detail regarding my views on learning at a later date but, as you can see from the rather austere title above, this is a little discussion on nostalgia.

I suppose it's only natural that I, well known to be an emotional and, dare I say it, sentimental chap, would experience levels of nostalgia bordering on obsessive lunacy after leaving home to live in Edinburgh. Amidst an inescapable maelstrom of change my thoughts naturally drift backwards, sifting through the sands of time, every crossroads, every new discovery, every bare-faced cliche.

I'm quite terrible at keeping nostalgia under control. Maintaining healthy levels of nostalgia, treading the line between an aloof disregard for all things passed and drowning in the violently frothing rapids of reminiscence, is challenging for some. Never the athletic type, I have serious problems with my balance, and I always seem to fall headlong into the latter. In many ways this makes little sense.

I am the first to admit that the majority of my teenage years, as with many adolescent boys, was comprised of regular self-administered inoculations of the most concentrated solution of angst and hormones. This resulted in me becoming a perfectly abhorrent teenage boy. Hooray for puberty!!!

Yet my view of these times leans towards a rose-tinted bias worthy of a holocaust denial! I was a contemptible turd of a boy! A moaning, self-absorbed ball-sack living in a world which I turned against myself as much for the purpose of justifying my own self-pity as for engendering that of others! What kind of a Utopian era is that to remember fondly? But there it is, lording it over the present from its ivory throne in its ivory tower, safe in the knowledge that it can't be changed by any act, choice or gross disregard for the laws of physics.

An objective view, or a view as objective as I can muster, would surely be that my life only really became worthy of nostalgia about a year ago. Before then it was, as mentioned, a pretty pitiful thing, a crumpled and discarded post-it note on the crumb-laden floor of God's office cubicle.

Why then, given everything I have just said, is the past such an alluring notion? Heraclitus said that the past didn't even exist! Something along the lines of the only time being the present and the past and the future being only concepts devised to lend definition to the present itself. Then again he also said that Pythagoras lacked general understanding and that Homer should have been beaten. Hefty views for a man famed for crying all the time. But how appropriate an addition to this staggered jumble-sale of thoughts and musings.

I think I have a theory as to why the past, with its voluptuous curves of memory and experience, its enchanting gaze of wisdom and knowledge, is so much more effective a temptress than the future, that history's warm bosom is so much more inviting a place to rest one's head than the sparse, anorexic and angular chest of the future. I crave security. I don't like sudden changes, and the present and the future are always being ripped apart and reassembled by sudden changes. The past is set in the concrete of time. The future is constantly being obscured and revealed by the shifting sand-dunes of possibility. To live in the past is to walk around an enormous museum built to the specifications of your own desire, housing exhibits procured by your own actions. To live in the future is to have this museum change with every second, its elegant structure writhing and twisting like some new-born creature gasping to fill its lungs. The exhibits are intimidating and ever-changing, everything you learn is rendered obsolete within minutes. It is difficult to adapt to an uncertain future where your constants are changing and your changes are constant. But living in the past has its disadvantages.

Dwelling on the past and viewing it as a simpler, idyllic time when pollution wasn't a problem, when people were honest and united together against the ruskies, banks had money and HMV hadn't mercilessly crushed small music businesses into paste beneath the fleshy mass of their financially bloated feet. This removes appreciation from the present which, in time, will become the past and be added to the vast collection in your private museum, under the benevolent gaze of you, the curator. Sooner or later what you're doing now will be in the past. When it is it becomes a potential subject for nostalgia and reminiscence. But memories are finite. Like radioactive material they lose potency over time. To not utilize them now is to waste their power. You will never truly experience the present as it is meant to be experienced. You will live in a shadow world of dying thoughts, a sprawling mental necropolis housing the mummified remnants of your experience. Suddenly the comfort of your museum will be gone, the elegantly panelled walls, once a warm, varnished brown, will become ghastly and pale.

Besides, the very foundation of modern society is the desire to improve ourselves, to make great leaps in the fields of science and art. We strive each day to make the world a better place. As soon as we become too focused on the past we become impotent, unable to impregnate the future with the seed of our creative and intellectual loins. How that analogy can be made valid for women is unclear right now and I'm not really up to the task of writing a female-friendly version...not in any great detail at least. You shall simply have to ask your parents. Or Google it...

So there we have it chaps and chapettes. My silly thoughts on nostalgia. A pleasant and valuable human emotion but one to be kept in check with the same severity as one one's lust or even one's anger. Surely the main use of nostalgia is to learn from the past to allow an efficient and unhindered journey into the future which can be enjoyed as fully as possible as it happens.

Or else what will you have to consider on your death-bed other than all the moments you missed rushing by, catching only a brief glimpse of their pert buttocks disappearing round the corner.

With that I must leave you. My sleeping patterns have been highly erratic of late and I must take every possible course of action necessary to prevent full-blown nocturnalism. If you've made it this far without becoming lost either in the labyrinthine corridors of my perplexing rhetoric or the decaying halls of your own private museum then I bid you a fond adieu. If you are lost then you have my sincerest condolences. In this day and age, you will probably be raped by a god-damned ruskie.

Jamie.

P.S. Why not give Hector Berlioz a try. Mad as a spoon but underrated nonetheless.